


The Ballad of Mona Lisa

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Gen, Mona Lisa, Tattoos, Various Artists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 01:17:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14124990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: The slender bones shift underneath his skin; they form quick, sharp outlines and melt back beneath muscle and pigment. Mona Lisa's smile wavers with each passing bone, as if she's as unhappy at his situation as he is. Kate probably has the same painted smile. He wonders if she's exhausted, too.Peter nods towards his hand, finally breaking his silence. His grin is predatory, all teeth and sarcasm. “I thought the Mona Lisa was in Paris.”





	The Ballad of Mona Lisa

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, but imagine: Neal Caffrey with tattoos. 
> 
> His entire right arm is dedicated to Raphael, Michelangelo, etc. It all flows together flawlessy, blending in different artists and works seamlessly. 
> 
> Half of his left arm, stopping just below the elbow, are works of Van Gogh, Degas, etc. Lower down, encircling his wrist and spaced between blank spaces of skin, are different boarders (they look strikingly like the boarders of bonds) as well as a slightly green looking Ben Franklin on the back of his left hand. 
> 
> Everything Neal's ever stolen or foraged is painted permanently on his skin.

 

When Peter arrests Neal, he's wearing a dark blue shirt, the color of the ocean. The fabric hugs him tightly, rippling with the tension in his shoulders and back like waves. His sleeves are rolled up, skin exposed.

He's met Neal a few times before—and he could have sworn at least one of those times, he wasn't wearing long sleeves—but Peter is still shocked when he catches sight of Neal's arms. _Hands up_ , he says, and for a minute he's afraid Caffrey outsmarted him again, he hired a front man. But then, as he walks closer, he's able to make sense of the swirls of color on his arm, the shadows and highlights, curving lines fading into flawless shapes. _Art_.

Peter smiles. Oh, they’ve got the right man.

He was right when he called Neal Caffrey a cocky son of a bitch. He just had no idea how much.

 

* * *

 

  
Neal leans back in his chair, muscles relaxed but sore. His fingers tap out a rhythm on the table he's handcuffed to, but he's not too nervous; by now, he's bored. Adrenaline has worn off and he's ready to move on, allow the FBI a little bit of glory, admit defeat (internally and never in front of a jury). Peter deserves it _and_ the promotion Neal has probably just won him.

Still, it's been hours; he's restless and exhausted. He continues tapping out _The Devil's Trill_ on the table, idly watching his hand as Peter watches him. He has yet to ask a question. Neal doesn't let it bother him.

The slender bones shift underneath his skin; they form quick, sharp outlines and melt back beneath muscle and pigment. Mona Lisa's smile wavers with each passing bone, as if she's as unhappy at his situation as he is. Kate probably has the same painted smile. He wonders if she's exhausted, too.

Peter nods towards his hand, finally breaking his silence. His grin is predatory, all teeth and sarcasm. “I thought the Mona Lisa was in Paris.”

Neal smiles. He catches on quick—it's something he and Peter admire about each other. Of course, this an interrogation, and the only thing they have him on is bond forgery. Neal won't offer them anything else, even if his body does. Tattoos aren't proof of anything. Even criminals are allowed to admire art.

“How can she be?” he asks, tilting the back of his hand away from himself, so Peter can see her better. “She's my right hand man.”

 

* * *

 

  
A few months after Neal Caffrey is sentenced and thrown in lock up, Peter gets a card. The envelope is thick, expensive, with a velvety texture; it stands out to him more than the rest of the mail.

Humming with curiosity, Peter tosses the rest of the stack on the table, holds the cream colored letter up to the light. He inspects it closely, studying the edges and mouth. There's a tiny _NC_ on the bottom left hand corner. Peter smiles.

He rips it open with a dull blade, slides the card out. The front is, surprisingly, blank. Given Caffrey's admiration for art, he'd expected a little more. He's almost disappointed.

But on the inside, written in calligraphy so elegant and beautiful it looks like art itself, are the words _Happy Birthday._ There's a short note, heartfelt and cheeky as if Neal knows him like a friend.

What strikes Peter, though, is a stiff square of paper tucked inside, dressed in plastic. It looks to be a homemade press on tattoo, about the size of a fist. If Peter were to press it into his skin, it would look just like Neal's.

On the back, written in slanted handwriting, Neal wrote, _You should wear a smile like Mona Lisa's everyday, Peter. I hope you enjoy your birthday!_

Peter grins, shaking his head. What a cocky bastard.

 

* * *

 

 "You like art, man?" 

Neal looks up from the book he's reading, folding the corner of a page and setting it down in his bed. Bobby stands on the other side of the bars, rolling up the sleeve of his uniform to reveal a small geometric design on his wrist. Neal flashes him a smile. 

He rolls out of bed, striding up to inspect it and nods in appreciation. The line work is flawless, slicing through the contours of small bones and weaving an intricate web etched into his skin. The ink is striking against a dark background; it's beautiful. Neal says as much. 

"Thanks," Bobby says, almost smiling as he rolls down the sleeve. He glances up at Neal from the corner of his eye, leaning forward slightly. "Who's your artist?" 

Neal shrugs. He's not ambidextrous or flexible, but about 75% of his art is done by his own hand. Mozzie helped him with the rest, tracing temporary ink with a needle, his hand steadied by wine. "I am."

Bobby nods, unsurprised. He's seen Neal's drawings, so he probably expected the answer. "That's good," he says, far too casually, shifting slightly away. "Everyone's gotta find ways to survive in here, Neal." 

Neal smiles. Maybe prison won't be so bad, after all.

* * *

 

The apartment is cold. The heat is turned off—has been for a few days now. The weather is only getting colder, but today it's somewhat mild. The sun is out, the wind isn't chilly. Caffrey couldn't have picked a better day to escape from prison.

The room is bare, save some lights, a bicycle in the corner and Neal Caffrey cradling a wine bottle. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt, arms exposed and covered in colorful goosebumps.With how Neal is sitting, he can only made out half of his right side and the back of his head. Peter's eyes are drawn to the tattoos, brought out by the white of the apartment. They're striking and for a moment, Peter thinks it's almost unfair that something so beautiful could be illegal. But this is Neal Caffrey. He makes his own rules.

“I see Kate moved out.” Neal shifts, lets loose a breath, but doesn't answer. Peter slowly walks closer. “She leave you a message in that?” he asks, staring at the wine bottle.

“The bottle is the message,” Neal says.

Assured by his answer, Peter moves a little closer, keeping him talking, keeping him calm. He studies Neal while trying not to look like it. He's still holding the wine bottle, not looking at Peter as he talks. He's slouched against the wall, with a defeated look on his face. Even when he was arrested, Neal didn't look like this. He's always been suave, confident, cocky.

It's interesting.

It's sad, almost. But Neal knew the consequences when he committed crimes—and, judging by the artwork on his body, there are a great many of them that he hasn't even been convicted of. If Kate left after four years, Peter doubts she would have stayed for forty, much less a lifetime. Neal should have thought of that before he earned his first tattoo. Before he escaped from prison.

“What's the message?” he asks, when Neal knits his eyebrows together, muscles in his jaw strained. A vein in his temple is popping out, the same color of faded ink on his left arm. _Four more years._ Neal looks as if he's about to start crying. Peter doesn't comment on it.

Neal sets the bottle down on the ground. His fingers absentmindedly ghost over the smile on the back of his hand as he stares dejectedly at the Bordouex. Peter wonders if he has a tattoo of Kate somewhere hidden on his body or if he got the Mona Lisa for her, instead. “Goodbye.”

He chuckles, shakes his head. It's a dramatic breakup, but then, everything in Neal Caffrey's world is dramatic. “Women.”

Neal scoffs half heartedly at him, nodding. He still looks distant and scared, but when he glances up to Peter, he smiles anyway.

Peter smiles back.

 

* * *

 

  
Neal sits on the bedroom floor, shirt off, wearing grey sweatpants. There's a mirror, propped up by the wall, pictures taped up beside it. He'll have to stop soon. His hands are getting tired, twitchy, and the skin of his chest tingles like sharp electricity.

Footsteps sound down the hall, breaking his concentration. Neal sets the gun down, flexing his fingers just as Mozzie walks in the door. He studies himself and his work in the mirror. Dark blues fade into shades of grey and teal, turning sharply, curving gently. Most of the outline is done; in a few days, he'll start shading and highlighting.

The tops of the sails reach out to kiss his right collarbone, slanted towards his shoulder. They trail down, the canvases getting larger as they reach the bottom of the boat, expanding onto his chest. One end of the ship almost touches the center of his chest, the end expanding towards his armpit. Swirls of color will make up the ocean and bleed into a stormy sky. Neal grins. He's proud of himself, even if it's just abstract lines right now. He can't wait to wear the finished artwork. Maybe he'll even show it off to Peter.

 _“What,”_ Moz yelps, “is _that?”_

“Moz,” Neal says, entirely unconcerned, “you know what it is.”

“Isn't that a bit . . . preemptive?”

Neal shrugs. “Not really. We caught Hagan this morning.”

Mozzie stares at his chest. Apparently, he's unwilling to move on just yet. “The Dutchman, though? Really?”

  
“I didn't give him the name. This case determined my future, Moz. I'm out of prison--for good.”

Mozzie hums, pouring himself a glass of wine. His brows are etched together, uncertainty written on his face. “You didn't steal anything,” he says, referring to the running theme of his entire collection. “You . . . earned it.”

Neal nods, still studying the line work. It will take some getting used to. This is a new chapter in his life. He wants it to be a colorful one. “I know. It's weird for me, too. But this is as much as an accomplishment as the rest of me is.” _It will bring me one step closer to Kate. Earning Peter's trust. Working for the FBI._ “It's significant. It deserves some space, doesn't it?”

Mozzie takes a careful sip of his wine. “If you say so, Neal.” He pauses. "Are you going to tattoo every case? That might be bad for business." 

Neal grins. "Of course not." 

 _Maybe,_ he thinks. _Maybe_

 

**Author's Note:**

> So . . . Kudos? Comments? Let me know what you think! :)


End file.
